


Linger

by kaitsy



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitsy/pseuds/kaitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew spends time with Mary again after Lavinia's death and months of self-loathing. A step in repairing their broken relationship involves horseback, trains, and Mary's fascination with a certain scar on Matthew's back. Lengthy and Matthew-centric, two-part story. No series 3 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this two-part story, set between the series two finale and the Christmas Special. I turn back to this as part of characterising Matthew in other writings of mine. I posted this on FF.net but thought it might like to see life here, as well. It is very heavily centred on Matthew's crippling self-loathing after Lavinia's death and deals with the issues that arose in the episode before the CS. Explores a sweet moment with Mary that acts as the anchor that brings them back in together before the Christmas Special. I couldn't help but think - How did they start speaking again at all after the incidents surrounding Lavinia's death? Anyway, here it is, I appreciate thoughts and criticisms and even if you just take time to read at all!

_July 1919_

* * *

July was bearing down on them, the sun was hot and the days were long. Grass green, leaves thick, air sweet, heavy, and warm.

For one thing Matthew was glad was that it had happened in the throes of springtime – Had she died during the cold, dark, winter days he was not sure he would have pulled himself out of it. He may have just buried himself alongside her if it happened in November or another dark month. But no, it was the springtime and the only thing about it that meant he could carry on was – was the sunshine and chirping birds and the summer to follow. His first summer free from war in four years, and he was healing, walking again, miraculously. If he had to live for anything, it was for that, to see a summer sun again and feel warm air, walk through fields and not have to worry about being blasted to pieces. It was all he had.

But he thought of...her and that day, her death, in a detached way. He couldn't acknowledge that it was...Lavinia...and it happened days before their wedding...after he had...he had kissed...No. He couldn't reflect on it as Matthew reflecting on Lavinia's death, he did so as some stranger viewing their lives from an outside point of view. Even doing so as that – even behaving as someone looking in, not someone involved in the very centre of all that had happened – was so very painful. He thought it must look as tragic to an actual outsider as it did to him – He felt the sympathetic stares, read the letters, ignored the whispers, sent back the wedding gifts. The gramophone that had started it all, that had played while he held Mary...

_Mary._

If there was a man alive who despised himself more than Matthew did, it would be a man with blood on his hands, he supposed. He could hardly believe what they'd done (and so was his thought process for many weeks – _they'd),_ that he had touched and kissed her while Lavinia was sick in bed, had used their wedding gift as a way to connect with Mary in a sweet dance...

The damned do fall and oh how he fell. He was angry, in denial, when Lavinia laid in bed, in Mary's delicate nightdress, confessing she saw and heard what had happened as the two danced...Of course she did, of course he managed to hurt two women in one instance, of course this lapse of his meant great heartache for all involved (except for Carlisle). She was so sick, so small, flushed and glistening in a sheen of sweat. If he'd only known...that it – if he'd only known it would be the last they would speak before that bed became her deathbed...He didn't know what he would have done differently, perhaps begged forgiveness, banished himself to the pits of Hell, plead it should be he not she...

But no, the next they spoke she was gasping for breath, nearly a corpse save for her faint heartbeat, and she was asking him to be happy, telling him it was _easier,_ it was better...it meant no one had to get hurt, it meant he wouldn't have to make a choice...

He was sickened with himself and astounded that Lavinia could speak so easily about something so private, that as she lay dying, she was as selfless and good, hopeful and forgiving, as she had been in life. It was not fair, he thought, grasping her hand and unable to say a single comforting thing, only that he wouldn't be happy without her. He wouldn't, would he? Even aside from the fact he did still hold love for her, even if he hadn't – he couldn't be happy knowing she died with only his welfare on her mind, not her own. She deserved to watch him suffer from far away where her spirit must wander and she would.

Matthew knew not what else to do but close up, deny himself all happiness, hang his hat alongside misery and never forgive or justify what he had done. It was nothing, it was small efforts and changed _nothing_. They'd all just be miserable and she was dead and gone so what did it matter – it didn't. It insulted her memory, if anything.

And he knew, too, when Mary approached him at the end of the wake, and he could barely keep down the bile burning his throat, that he would lash out at her. Because if Mary was nothing else, she was strong and steady. While she wore black, looked mournful and pale, she was so able to move fluidly from emotional situation to the next that it was infuriating to him, just then.

He had seen highs and lows from her but mostly she was even and she had so easily welcomed him back after their failure, and after his first return from war – he couldn't have known what she was thinking. He hardly dared to dream she could love him again until Cousin Violet told him – of course he felt affection from her, and concern when he was injured, but she was so damned good at being alright, at being shaken to the core but visibly fine that he resented her for it.

It was with a sneer of sorts that he told her, that Lavinia had heard and seen everything between them the night she died and they were partners in her destruction. They'd killed her, that kiss, that heartbreak was the final blow to her good health and she was gone, no longer walked among them. Mary must share in that responsibility, for he could not bear it alone. She was so very good at being strong and reasonable in the face of tragedy, so he laid it on her and instantly regretted it. Was he just a cruel man, betraying everyone he loved? He felt he must be, as he watched Mary's face fall, as he watched her struggle to maintain composure, Carlisle watching so closely on. She agreed, entirely defeated, that of course it was their end, how could it not be? He watched with a clenched gut as she walked back to the house with Carlisle, arm-in-arm. Matthew was horrified for the day, for the fact he was burying the sweetest girl in existence, who he had loved so but just could not love as much as he had Mary. Knowing he had driven Mary further to Sir Richard was just the cap on it all.

They could never be happy as a couple after what they had done to the unassuming young Lavinia but how could he watch her try to be happy with Carlisle? Matthew had no idea what he wanted anymore, or, rather, he did know but felt so disgusted with himself he knew he would never act. It was why he had said it, they were cursed, was it not? To share the burden with her but to also finally, mercifully, put to rest their unending, exhausting, harmful relationship. They were to be cousins again – engagements, dances, kisses of the past buried with Lavinia, beneath their mounting regret over the situation.

He blamed Mary as well as himself because it must have been easier for her. Cousin Violet had told him Mary was still in love with him and that he should marry her and it just assured what he thought – That Mary scarcely loved Carlisle. And with that lack of love, Matthew believed it was easier for her to accept his kiss, to dance with him and muse over them as a show that flopped. It was Mary's fault too because they never moved far enough from each other, she didn't have a proper engagement, a proper love and he couldn't keep his distance knowing that. Had she been happy maybe he would have tried harder to be, as well. It was the perfect storm, he thought, the perfect dance they did around each other – Mary wasn't happy so he wasn't happy and vice versa. They were doomed to want each other and it was only tragic because they involved other people in it. Had they spent the years pining and loving from afar, fine, but to bring someone as innocent as Lavinia into their mess...

It was wrong, he knew to share his guilt with Mary. He thought it may help, he thought he may feel some relief but instead it was worse than before. Lavinia may have seemed the more innocent in it all but the look on Mary's face told him she was just as worthy, just as caring and undeserving of all he had done...

The regret was why he could not speak or look at Mary in the weeks afterwards.

* * *

Matthew bumbled along for a few months, taking therapy in London for his back and he was recovering at a rapid rate, hardly any discomfort or struggles with walking. How was that fair at all, he wondered, and once, describing his progress to Robert and Cora, he had said he was recovering at an "alarming" rate. His mother had turned to him and looked gently surprised.

"Matthew," Isobel had said. "It's not alarming to be recovering quickly, I think you mean rapidly. We're not alarmed by your progress, just pleased with how fast it's happening! Isn't that right?"

He had looked across to where his mother sat and couldn't find it in himself to argue or look interested or even care very much. It was alarming to him, if no one else, that after all he had done to hurt those around him, that he was walking without a cane by Spring's end. What of karmic retribution? What of getting what was coming to him, what he deserved, for hurting everyone so? No, he had fully-functioning legs, a restored libido and specific body part, and, except for the nasty scar at the base of his back, his life could be normal again, as if the war, the injury, the loss, the pain, had never happened...

But of course it had.

"Yes mother."

He wanted to retreat to Manchester, he wanted to make good on the promise he had told Mary all those years ago after their failed engagement. He thought he would, he thought he must. How could he stay in Downton all his lifelong, waiting to take the last thing from Mary that he possibly could? How could he live there, a constant reminder of the man she had loved and lost and damned and who would inherit her estate, with or without Lavinia? She would go off and marry Carlisle eventually but it was still her home, she would still watch uneasy as the years passed and it slipped more and more from her grasp...until Matthew was Earl and what had it all meant, anyway?

He would leave, he would, as soon as he was healed up and found a job back home in Manchester (he hated how it felt foreign to think of Manchester as home, though it had been for most of his life, and was unsettled by how much Downton was apart of him now). It was a bizarre but also appealing option...disappearing from his role as heir presumptive until the day came he would be Earl, decades down the road. Ah, that he could do, that he deserved – Turn his back on Downton just as he had left Manchester behind.

It was his resolve, to go, but the more able-bodied he became the less prepared he was to follow through. Matthew didn't want to leave his Mother behind, for he had been the reason this change in their lives had even happened. He didn't want to leave Mary behind, either. For though they didn't speak anymore, since they stood at an open grave and Matthew slung all the bad feelings onto her that he could manage, he still heard stories of and saw interactions with Sir Richard from afar. How could he possibly leave her behind to all of that? To _him_? If only someone would stop her from it all, he wouldn't have to, and he could leave and they could both start over again (again, again) but she was sinking fast in the relationship with Carlisle and Matthew just couldn't possibly _understand.._

So, he had not left, he was healed and spry and in Downton he stayed, though he relayed his plans to no one, keeping them all on edge and wondering what was next for any of them.

* * *

Now he thundered along the soft, fragrant summer earth on a great white steed. He bobbed up and down on the horse's back too much and with less control than an experienced rider would have but – This was the moment he felt most alive. It was comparable only to when he had been at war, staring down the barrel of a gun and the surge of liveliness that came after surviving that. It was taking his life back, this was, his breath caught up in the wind that blew through him as their speed increased. He took great gulps of air when he could and his heart pumped wildly as his senses blurred with the passing scenery around him.

There was sweat on his brow from the exertion of staying on the horse, of grasping the reigns and holding his muscles tight, but it dried as he flew through the air, with the ease of a much lighter, airborne animal. He was frightened of falling and undoing all of the therapy he had taken in the last months but he was more afraid of ever stopping, of ever feeling less than he did in that moment. If this was life, every other moment he lived paled in comparison and it was the only thing that made sense – it was the only way he could escape his suffocating guilt and grief and all he had done wrong.

This was freedom outside of any he had ever known.

The larger black horse was more adventurous, taking jumps here and there and leaping over the ground as if large abysses lay beneath them, strides as long as the earth itself, he swore. In his admiration he noticed they slowed and he squeezed the sides of his horse, slowing not nearly as smooth or efficiently as the sleeker pair ahead had.

She was off the horse and on her feet before he had even fully stopped and he had to circle around where she stood, feeling awfully inept and juvenile, until finally the smaller white horse was still.

"Can you manage?" Mary looked up at him and he was aware of how high from the ground he was and how stupid it would be to stumble but he nodded, steadying himself as he prepared to disembark. "Be careful, they'll all have strokes if they even know you were out."

He awkwardly swung his legs to one side of the horse and braced himself, sliding down the warm body some until he was closer to the ground and then he let go. He landed firm on his feet and winced a little, stretching his arms above his head and rubbing his back briefly.

Although she tried desperately not to express very much toward him on this day, he saw faint concern etched in the small lines drawn around her eyes and she quirked her mouth for a minute, wondering to speak.

"Are you alright, then?"

"Yes – not as bad as I thought, actually. I feel limber even." His muscles were a bit stiff from the position he had been in, tense and trying terribly to hold on for dear life even as he enjoyed every second of it. He stretched again and felt relief rush into his bones, they had enjoyed the pleasure of a challenge.

She smiled and he was not entirely used to seeing it again. She had been a dark presence in the months since and he was sure she would never feel glad toward him again.

"I brought apples for the horses and they need a drink – It's so hot for them." Matthew nodded as she dug through her saddle pack and handed him an apple. His heart filled and warmed and all but burst as she stroked Diamond's nose and held out a flat, gloved palm for him to sneak the apple from – she looked like a schoolgirl, impressed by the horse, revelling in the companionship, and he was a bit in awe at the love she showed the animal.

He fed his own horse an apple and then tethered them both to a tree by the lake, as they dug their snouts into the water, drinking noisily and plentifully.

"Did you bring anything for us? I'm parched, too." And a bit breathless, feeling restricted by the unforgiving, tight riding jacket.

"No," Her eyebrows were raised and nearly disappeared under her tall hat's brim. "You could try drinking from the lake, too, if you're brave."

"Ah," Matthew murmured, not wanting to provoke her. She was still quarrelsome but less cold than she had been in the months since. "I suppose this will do." He dug into his breast pocket and pulled out a flask, grinning as she looked utterly affronted at the notion.

"Oh yes, ride drunk that will ensure your safety." She rolled her eyes in a delightfully Lady Mary fashion and he only grinned wider.

He took a swig of the cool, smooth liquor and sighed with satisfaction. He offered her the silver flask with a quirked brow and who was she to deny a challenge?

Matthew felt like someone far removed from the world of Downton as he watched Lady Mary Crawley clutch his battle-worn flask and gracefully tilt her head to take her own swill of the stuff. She neither hissed with disgust or sighed in pleasure, was as even-mannered as she had been most of the day.

"Are you alright, then?" Matthew returned the question and she narrowed her eyes, not a glare, closer to a playful smile.

"Quite. Enough of that, though, your mother will already have my head if she knows you've been riding, let alone doing so drunk."

"Oh, if I were a drunkard you'd know by now. A little nip takes the edge off, though."

"Hmm."

It was true, though, that in all of his time spent alone, riding trains to and from London for therapy and the odd visit with Reggie (Swire, Lavinia's father), he had drank more often than he had before. Secluding himself from the family at the big house, not yet able to return to work, he found being inside his own head torturous. Not only did Matthew live with the ghosts of war – every enemy he had killed, every brother in arms he had watched fall – he too lived with the ghost of William, the ghost of Lavinia...even his long-departed father was there again, accompanying the visions of his past, clouding his thoughts daily. His head was filled of phantom voices and distant shadows of blood and blasts and gasping, rattling, last breaths. He never drank to addiction or drank to illness but it was true, what he said, that a nip did take the edge off – He could take the days a bit easier if a swill of dark liquor put to rest his thoughts of the lingering dead.

He had joined Mary that day at all because he had dined for luncheon at the house, wandering up a bit lonely and aimless, looking to speak with Robert. Mary was away in London, visiting Sir Richard, for the family had taken a shorter season in June, and would be travelling to Ireland at the end of July for Sybil's wedding. It was the only time Mary could fit in to see him and she was back by lunch a day later, so Matthew mused on how well it must have gone.

She had come into the dining room, dressed in light, pale summer colours – A tan coat, a cream blouse with a ribbon around the waist, a soft peach coloured skirt grazing her ankles. She looked beautiful and vibrant, ripe for the picking, cheeks pink from the warm day, netted gloves on her lovely hands. She removed her coat, handing it to Carson and taking her place, but then stumbled over her words when she realized the table was fuller than it had been since Sybil had left...Matthew sitting next to Edith, instead.

It was the first meal they took together since before Lavinia had died.

When it was over, Mary announced she was going riding. She left the table and after a quick sip of tea Matthew said he was going home and thanked them all for the luncheon – it was rare he had one in the big house and enjoyed it, settling back into a routine of sorts since tragedy befell them.

He didn't go home, though, he found her in the stables, already dressed, securing the saddle pack and preparing to swing onto Diamond's back. They had only said a few polite words over the meal and right then she invited him to come along. He looked perplexed for a moment, a cane still in hand, and he left it leaning in the barn as the white horse was saddled for him.

And now Mary was tugging her hat from her head, gently untangling it from her hair and she was unfastening the long, heavy skirt around her waist and sliding it down her legs. Matthew's mouth slackened some, not so over Mary that he wasn't caught up in the sight before him. He wasn't over her at all and how many times had he imagined her skirt dropping around her legs? How many times had that image alone gotten him through a long night at the front? His cheeks flushed both then and now, although the sight in front of him was a good deal more innocuous than he would have imagined.

She, of course, wore jodhpurs beneath the skirt and bemoaned how she wished she could have worn them alone today for it was much too hot for so many layers. Mary unbuttoned her coat and took it off and hung all three garments from a tree branch that was low to the ground, to preserve the clothes from wrinkles.

Matthew felt damp from the perspiration catching up with him now that he was off the horse. The air was humid and hot and clung to him, so he too tugged off his borrowed riding coat, loosened his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves, matched her state of undress. He tossed his cap onto the ground but hung everything else alongside Mary's clothes and what a bizarre sight it must have been.

Her hair brushed across her forehead in a fringe of sorts, the way it was parted and knotted at the back of her head was endearing, it was different. The styles were changing, Matthew thought, and Mary was at the forefront of it. When he had met her, seven or eight or a hundred years ago (he lost track), he hadn't thought she could look more beautiful or feminine but now she was a woman, truly, holding herself much different than that first day. She was less on guard, more easy grace, though strong as ever. Her face was more angular than back then, her baby cheeks smoothing and sharpening as cheekbones now defined her features. He had never thought of her as younger than she was now but she had been, hadn't she? He had known her for many long years, though they both came and went, but they were finally both in Downton at the same time...moving slowly, no real plans threatening to ruin them just then...(Matthew only faintly considered her engagement to Carlisle a plan at all and certainly not a big one)...

For a moment, and for some reason, he wondered if there was potential again. For what, he did not know, but perhaps just healing, just recovery of some sort. Oh how they both needed it, oh how he longed to feel whole and well and able to look at her again.

"You look nice." He said stupidly, not quite recovered from the vision of her removing her skirt, and his mouth still a bit slack.

"I'm sticky and dishevelled, Matthew." Had she said his name in all of the days between then and the last time he'd held her? He didn't think so. It wasn't dripping with affection but it still came from her lips.

"We look rather the same right now," He laughed as they each tugged at the sleeves of their white buttoned shirts, both in pants. "Matching fools or something."

"I like the androgynous look, actually." This he knew, from that conversation so long ago when she considered the boy-style haircuts they were wearing in Paris.

"Why's that?" Were they really talking about her clothes? Was that their topic of choice, the first time they were speaking again?

"Well I suppose it makes me feel determined, or strong – I was raised to know men were the important gender and this is how they dress, so I feel more important like it. Some day women will just dress how they please and feel good about it no matter what."

"Taking cues from Sybil?"

"Perhaps. She's the strength and will in the family. I believe in the old ways, so badly Matthew, I believe in my name and the estate and the titles of my parents but a shift in perspective couldn't hurt – for none of it will be mine just because I'm _female_.Of course I'll reconsider it all."

Matthew nodded – She was right, he knew, and it was on his hands that she lost it all twice. He wasn't sure how he could hear her thoughts while knowing he caused her so much pain and loss. How could she stand him? He couldn't stand himself.

"We've really not spoken in so long, Matthew." Her tone had changed from one of discussion to a wearier one, and she stood apart from him, down toward the lake while he was on more of an incline. There he stood much taller than he normally did and she looked small below him. He could see the intricate tucks and bends in her hairdo, from Anna's graceful fingers, and the long slope of her neck. All of his feelings for her lumped in his throat and he worked on not bursting it all forth.

Matthew found nothing to say and stared at her with slanted, soft eyes, silently pleading for something, he didn't know what, and she took pity on him with a sigh.

"Shall we sit?" She offered instead and Matthew took his jacket from the branch and laid it out on a flat bit of ground. The grass was lush around them, dandelions grew amongst the blades, and the secluded place by the lake was a warm summer's retreat at Downton. Mary smiled over at the horses as she folded herself down onto the jacket and Matthew seated himself onto the edge, his back aching a bit.

He never swore about his injury, never cursed it or anything – it was a reminder of his time at war, his time with Lavinia...the things he had done and seen. He deserved to be aware of it every day of his life, as long he lived, for to escape all he had caused truly unscathed was hard for him to swallow. He almost enjoyed the pain his back sometimes gave him, a masochistic reminder he was still alive.

Mary's attention was drawn from the horses and over to him as he situated himself, a bit on the coat, a bit off of it, trying to maintain distance from her but also be friendly and comfortable. He massaged his back some and groaned at the pleasant relief, stretching his legs out long in front of him. His hand absently stroked over his back as he stared out over the shimmering lake and had he been paying better mind he would notice her staring at him as she hadn't in a long time.

"Matthew..." His name on her lips again and he was surprised at the cautious, tentative way she said it.

"Hmm?" With eyebrows raised politely he met her eyes, dark, and nearly the colour of honey when the sun glinted just _so..._

She spoke and he missed it because he was caught up in the deep, dark depths of her eyes. He was a fool for her and it was embarrassing how plain he made it.

"Sorry, pardon?"

She tilted her head and sighed again.

"May I _see_ it?" Mary tipped her head to his back, where his hand lay, as she spoke and he understood.

And it was in this moment he learned that, while Lavinia bore down on him like a weight that would break his spirit, his confidence, his life, the war bore down on Mary – perhaps as much as it had he. While she was broken over Lavinia's death, horrified at the shared guilt they trudged along with for many weeks, she never got over the war. She dwelt on it like he dwelt on Lavinia and it was plain across her face, tentative in her eyes. He had lost Lavinia but Mary had...had lost him to the war, he had left her behind the day of the garden party and was gone for training so soon after. She lost him that way, their relationship very final, and had nearly lost him so very many times during the battles. The war would follow her, the thief that stole him away too soon.

He felt as if he moved and blinked and breathed in slow motion while he looked at her. She looked beautiful – this would be the Mary he would carry with him the rest of his life. Oh he carried scars, ghosts, and guilt but she he would carry, too. No matter what came of them – no matter if she married Carlisle and had a dozen children, no matter if he died alone or married some woman he could never love as the two he lost...she would be with him. She was as haunting as anyone, as anything. Her amber coloured eyes, dark and warm at once, were careful but curious as she watched him. Her skin was white as bone and delicate as too, small lines pulling at the corners of her eyes when she laughed. She had lips the colour of petals and her hair shone in the sunlight, a golden halo blooming off the stray hairs around her head. She was this unfathomable beauty and grace in some perfect human form. Matthew swallowed hard and took deep breaths, wiping a cold sweat from the back of his neck.

"See it? See... _it_ what?" For a moment he wondered if she was being crass and he knew it was unlikely but he also tingled a bit at the thought. She looked scandalised, though, and he realized he was wrong and smiled bashfully.

"Matthew, I'm a Lady! Your – your back."

"Why would you ever want to?"

"I haven't seen it since the armistice, before even, when it still needed bandaged."

"You talk like you're old pals." He said quietly and insects buzzed in the air, breeze rustled the trees and the sun beat down hot, his face reddening both from that and from her.

"Well, we had a bit of a bond for a few months."

"I suppose so, you took good care of it. Do you remember what it looked like then? I don't remember first coming back, I know you were there when I woke up though. You were there when Clarkson poked at my back and I didn't know whether I felt a thing or not..."

"I was there the moment they brought you in. I remember, it was angry and dark and huge. I've fallen from a horse before and never saw a bruise so big. It crossed most of your back, down low and it was bloody, a bit, deep cuts. This pulsing purple bruise right over your spine. Like something eating away at you."

"You bathed me."

"Sybil taught me the once and then I would wrap it, they would look at it each day and I'd wash you. The water was so dark with blood the first time."

"Mary." His voice was rough to see her so pained, so sure but tormented by it all.

"Please may I see."

He began, uncertainly, plucking open the buttons of his shirt, untucking it from the waistband of his trousers and the whole situation had impropriety stamped onto it but no one was around, just him and her. Again, of course.

Mary leaned over and gathered the hem of his shirt in her hands and lifted up, up above his belted trousers, to the middle of his back, where he reached round and held the bunched shirt up. He leaned forward some to give her a better look and the wind felt nice on his old wound, as it had been irritated some by riding for so long in the heat.

She breathed out as the deep, dark scar became visible, most above his pants but still so large a quarter of it was hidden below. She scooted behind him some, sitting cross-legged and from the corner of his eye he saw Mary bite her lip and press her hands against her knees. The jodhpurs pulled tight across her slim legs for the way she sat and he had never dreamed of the shape of her thighs before but now he could very plainly see them, aware she possessed such beautiful parts to her.

"I regret it. That we haven't spoken in...so long..." Matthew said quietly, the angle he sat at awkward but he was still and kept his shirt up, sure to allow her as much time as she wanted with the bit of him she bathed and healed that summer he returned from war.

"Do you? Even though we're cursed, even though it was our end?" She quipped, still leaning close behind him. He looked over his shoulder and her eyebrows were tugged together but not in a frown, nor a sad expression, just one so desperate to understand. Desperately curious, desperately hurt and trying not to show it – it was all obvious in the one small wrinkle between her brows.

"Oh god, Mary. What can I say."

"Do you think Lavinia is the last tragedy we'll ever see?"

"Certainly not."

"Precisely. She's not the last we'll suffer and you can't stay down like this or you'll never get back up. You can't lose your life too."

"I shouldn't have said what I did." He was still watching her. Normally they spoke so much through watching and movements, careful eye contact and veiled conversations but it wasn't the time to be polite or mysterious. They couldn't put to rest the mistakes of the very recent past by not saying things – by trying to interpret the other, by dancing around the issue. They were going to communicate if it took them years to get it all out, he decided, however unusual for them.

"No, you shouldn't have," She shook her head wildly, eyes huge and dark. "I'd feel anything you told me to and I feel insane with guilt."

"So do I."

"I know you're not the type, Matthew, to throw hurt,-"

"I was a bastard and I don't know how to move on from any of it. I'm deeply sorry, Mary. I should have said so months ago, I don't know why I didn't."

"Oh Matthew, it's not what you said it's whether or not you meant it. What bothers me is I really think you did. You really thought you helped to kill her."

"Of course I did."

"We'll never be on the same page if that's how you think, then."

He was sorry, he was pathetically sorry for hurting Mary so but he couldn't get over it – he didn't think he could ever get over it, that he betrayed Lavinia so obviously, that he contributed to heartache in her final hours. No, it wasn't fair to bring Mary down with him but he deserved it – he deserved everything he got.

"Then we'll simply never be on the same page." He conceded and the tension of the months since April was falling away – it helped that she was so close to his bare skin, admiring it while they talked – and while things weren't resolved, while he still stung and ached with Lavinia's cruel, sudden death, at least they were speaking. She thought he was a fool and couldn't believe his way of dealing with it but at least he knew, now. At least she was with him, more beautiful than his memory had let him believe and she was hurt but she was functioning, which was more than he could say for himself.

She looked at him and he saw her eyes shine in the high sunlight, wet with unspoken emotion. His heart pumped hard, painful in his throat.

Matthew flooded with relief and was astonished at how simple it seemed, that only talking to her – not even agreeing with her! - had made him feel better. He hated himself less for a minute, he felt the guilt, the familiar clench of unease but it wasn't so deep within him – it was sliding on a surface of relief and would re-bury later but just for the moment he was so, so glad to be speaking with Mary again. Perhaps she was the cure to all.

He faced forward again, stretching his neck, letting it loll to the side, bunching his shirt in one fist as she was not finished her study.

Then he felt warm fingertips ghosting across his spine, high at first but low and lower, skipping the ugly mark, pressing against his waistband before skimming back up. When she did lay hand on the scar Matthew jolted at her touch and jarred himself some, particularly from the position he sat.

"Oh!" He grunted with discomfort and Mary snatched her hand back, looking panicked as she scooted back to her corner of the coat.

"I'm sorry,-"

"Surprised me, is all." He stretched, his back cracking and creaking, so he turned onto his stomach and laid down, spreading out and sighing as the warm sun beat down on his naked skin. How he wished they were different sort of people, just then, just for that moment, the kind who would strip down and run into the lake to splash and swim and act their age. Lady Mary was the type to hide beneath a parasol rather than get her feet wet. He loved it about her but also yearned to see a side of her so completely unbridled...

This was close to that, though.

"I'm sure this is no pretty sight but it feels much better."

"You're fine. Is it sensitive? It's a bit red."

"Mmm," He shifted, his boots feeling odd and heavy and a bit too big (just a spare pair in the stables) and tried to get comfortable in the sun's soothing heat. "I think it is more sensitive but I can't be sure if I imagine it or truly feel it."

"Likely a bit of both." Mary said and he sensed they were both more relaxed with no probing eye contact or difficult conversation. He let his eyelids close and could feel her close to him again.

"Do you mind..." She ventured.

"Help yourself." He mumbled with a chuckle and this time her warm, small hand lay over the puckered skin of the scar, the bane of his existence for many long months. She simply pressed it there for a moment, perhaps considering the size of it compared to her hand and she bent over, stretching her shadow across him.

Wasn't this exactly what they were to avoid? Wasn't this what caused so much trouble in the springtime when he learned she loved him again...and couldn't keep away from her no matter their commitments to other people...Had he learned nothing? Lavinia died and still he found himself with Mary, after denying himself her company for months and letting their bad feelings stew, they were back here again. He was close to resigning that it was just inevitable. Lavinia may have died but before, when he danced with Mary and told her what he knew, he had an inkling of where it might go...he knew where he _wished_ it might go – He supposed the desire to be with Mary hadn't faded when Lavinia died. It was poisoned with guilt and murky behind all of their problems but it flared again when she touched him like that.

"I hope your head is back on a bit straighter, though."

"I don't blame you in her death, if that's what you mean – Only myself. I regret everything I did but can't blame you for anything, Mary – I never did. I only wished I could, wished I was less burdened in it all."

" _Do_ you regret it? Dancing..."How could he regret anything when her hands were soft and tracing lightly over the rough skin of his scar? He regretted not doing this sooner, if anything. His conscience was suffering but so too had he suffered without her, without this.

"I regret...she saw us...I regret...she's gone.."

"But we danced together and you told me what you did for a reason, didn't you? I think about that night and, Matthew, I wonder what it was about. Of course I mourn her awfully but I can't help... _wondering_..."

Matthew drew a sharp breath when he felt her nails dip into his sensitive skin, scratching lightly, pleasantly, oh.

"It was playing with fire – Being so close...of course we mused about being together. I don't think I did so with any expectations...I – I thought about leaving her, I told you...though I never dreamed you would leave Carlisle,-"

"I couldn't have left Richard. Still can not."

"There you have it – Just careless actions in a heated moment. I owed Lavinia loyalty for her sacrifice, loved her for it, even. Wasteful, though, wasn't it, to let ourselves go back there."

"Oh, wasn't it." Mary agreed, although absently, and her hands were becoming familiar to him, she was much more focused on her movements than the unpleasant conversation.

He was pale beneath the low afternoon sun, though not as much as she, and was covered sparsely in fair hairs on his arms, chest, stomach and when she touched him they rose in small gooseflesh and he quaked gently.

"What do you think?" And he meant the wound.

"I'm surprised to see it so healed, actually. I thought it would just gape open forever. It's still quite ugly, but not nearly so...The gashes, they feel like braille."

Matthew's laugh rumbled through him, his mouth muffled by his head propped up on his folded arms beneath him and he felt her loom closer. Her chest and torso brushed against him as she leaned down and his breath stuck in his throat. She pressed her lips to the lined, scarred skin, and he felt so much warmth from her toward the old battle wound that he was taken aback, stricken, sure she could heal with her very touch. She was melting him and breaking him and she could have anything she wanted in the world, he would bet, if only she would ask.

Her lips were warm and wet and placed a trio of kisses along the gnarled, mangled area before she sat up, stretched her legs out and folded her hands demurely in her lap, almost as if she had not been there at all. He was nearly gasping and his heart skipped against his ribcage and he staggered internally with everything. She was a constant surprise, bold and wonderful.

Matthew pushed himself up to his knees and shrugged into his shirt, letting it hang open as he looked at her again and she was almost too much – too much to see, to feel, to take in. She was real and alive and breathing, were they to deny themselves this, all over again? He could let Lavinia follow him to his own grave, and she would, but was he supposed to forget about Mary? Better yet, _how_ was he supposed to...

"I don't know how I've been away from you." He admitted quietly.

"Oh, Matthew..." She looked out over the water and it was so easy with her, she could keep herself together. "You hurt me so, it wasn't all that difficult to be away from you."

His pride recoiled slightly but he knew it was true, he was ashamed.

He felt heat burn his cheeks as she looked over and took in his bare frame, lean and blonde, firm muscle cording across his chest, shoulders, arms...She had only seen one another man so undressed, little did he know, and she much preferred this sight. He was harmless and attractive and she watched him openly. He was the light in the dark of the Pamuk scandal, to her, and very much looked the part. Light eyes, light hair – Pamuk loomed darkly over her, physically and otherwise.

"I'm so ashamed, Mary. Though, why is it that you couldn't and can't leave Carlisle?"

"Well perhaps it's just for I want to be with him."

"Perhaps that's it or that _is_ the reason?" He buttoned his shirt and sat beside her, a whinny from the horses told they were getting restless but this was where they must be – For back at the big house there was reality surrounding and he was disinterested in returning, not when they were finally, _finally_ resolute on mending.

"It's not the reason." Mary frowned and her lips pursed and Matthew imagined them kissing his own, or tinged with champagne on her wedding day, stained red and tasting of strawberries in France, parted in a gasp as his hands moved over her...

"Mary, it would be so refreshing if we could share these things." His tone was exasperated and clipped and the soft, quiet voices of the afternoon were gone.

" _You_ would think so, Matthew, you want to share at all of the worst times! Must you ruin this just as I'm starting to like you again?" She was haughty and fidgeted, looking as if she might stand or flee, cry or shout.

"Carlisle simply seems to be under the impression he can have control over you and your life. I just didn't see you the type to be bossed around. He's impatient."

"He's not a bad man. _He's not_. I don't say it unawares to how he behaves – He just behaves so for reasons and I've given him those reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"I committed myself to him yet surround myself with you. You must see the disparity."

"Of course I do, I was the same to Lavinia."

"You loved her, Matthew." Mary reminded gently and he had, yes, but not the way he loved her. They were so close to some edge, an epiphany, a revelation but she was holding back and he wasn't sure it would even matter, if anything would change or they could be together, if anything she said would make this different somehow.

"What of him, what of Richard? You love him, he loves you?"

"He loves the arrangement, he loves the prospect."

"You love the fortune, you love the position? I know you're not so shallow, Mary."

"He has me where he wants me, I can love or hate it all I want."

Somewhere beneath his buzzing attraction, his affection for her, he was curious. There was something else to it and he couldn't understand completely, his brain fuzzy and out of practice with their vague banter.

"Mary, what...I can't understand it."

She stood suddenly and what a vision that was as he watched from the grass, she a silhouette against the summer day's backdrop, regal in her slim-fitting jodhpurs, crisp and lovely, all that he knew.

"I hate sitting still." She told him.

"We've been sitting still for _years_."

She laughed and it rang out among the bird songs. "Oh Matthew, isn't that right. I'm glad you came out for the ride today. You could be good at it if you weren't so cautious. For Heavens' sake, you were in the army, you know!"

He was on his feet too and looked much less graceful than she – shirt messily done up, still untucked from his trousers, bits of lawn in his hair, cheeks ruddy. Though if he saw himself from her eyes he would know she saw it as desirable, this reckless abandon Matthew.

"I rode well, I have been crippled since!"

"Did you shoot just as well there?" She teased, and it was in jest but he bristled some at the dark thoughts it brought back. Remembering horseback riding during the war was one thing, but the gunfire that became second nature to him was another.

"Yes," he paused and hoped to brush it off but it was heavy on him, something the few moments with her had lightened some. "I shot a gun well. Quite often. That doesn't mean I'd be any better with fowl, though. Human men are more to target."

Her eyebrows rose while her forehead creased and he startled her, he realized. The last time she asked of the war, he had not been able to talk about it. In all of the months he was injured he only complained about his own situation, never telling her the horrors that still haunted him – The blood in his dreams, the thunderous explosions almost constant in his head, the dead men he left behind, the ones he carried over his now-bruised back.

"That was insensitive of me." She said, a bit breathless, taken aback by her own remark.

"Not at all. We must not forget it's a place I've been and something I've seen. It was a reminder."

Matthew gathered his coat from the grass and righted himself, approaching Mary as she pulled her hat back on, slipping into her riding coat and becoming Lady Mary again. He offered his arm with a small smile, as balance while she slid her skirts back over the jodhpurs. Once secured back around her waist she squeezed his arm in thanks and then climbed into the saddle, arranging herself on the side.

The afternoon had become late and the sun was lower, the golden light sleepy, the breeze had died down and the day was now very still. The sunset would be beautiful that evening it was already plain to see and fish leaped at the surface of the lake looking for insects to eat. Quiet plops and splashes of water were the soundtrack to the moment and the clear blue sky was reflected in the water, ripples disturbing the image.

Matthew felt very, very calm. And it was for the first time since...since the war, maybe? Since he had left on the train for war, this was the first time he felt truly calm...when he had no obligations but Mary and healing what had been harmed there. It felt good to have a task, to focus on someone besides himself and the dearly departed Lavinia. So constant and present was she in his mind that her memory had been a companion these long months, one that tortured him, and he did not want to escape it but perhaps it was time to get back to real people – perhaps it wasn't the biggest sin to spend time with flesh and blood, Mary, and mend whatever fences he could.

It wasn't as simple as that, of course, but it took a certain measure to allow himself near her again.

They rode back to the stables at a much slower pace, both they and the horses tired and minding the heat. Mary pointed out some places on the property that she loved most, Matthew remembered the tree they stood beneath when they broke off their near-engagement, Mary the very place she was at on the lawn when war was announced...where in the driveway she stood when he drove away to training...Matthew the path he had walked with Robert when he first arrived, coming to know the place.

Matthew bade farewell to Mary once they returned and left, cane in hand. He was disappointed they hadn't quite reached the solution they seemed to be speeding toward that afternoon but they had made some progress, he hoped. He had missed the sound of her voice and left some of his burden in the saddle that afternoon.


	2. Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew and Mary mend their bruised and battered relationship before Christmas 1919. They finish in Linger on a high note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to post the second part to this. Thank you for reading. It was an interesting time between Lavinia's death and the 2011 Christmas Special, although I find it difficult now, that series three has come to pass, to invest as much in this time period. I still think its important and interesting to explore and reflect on, because Matthew and Mary deserved a little bit more development - but I think I'm coloured a bit cynical after series three. I would love to write more re: this time period but find myself obsessing over death, even though there are other things in series three, even, to elabroate upon. Nevertheless, here's the second part!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Rain found them for long days after the stifling heat, and thunderstorms accompanied the drizzle. There was no relief to the hot July, it just became humid and wet instead. Rain was a good excuse to stay cooped up inside with a stack of books and he did just that. It had been difficult to read or focus very much since the Springtime. Matthew would always think – oh, this was Lavinia's favourite story, or this is Mary's, this he read during the war, that he had loaned to William one night off-duty, this his father introduced him to, that his friends from university had laughed about...

All he had left behind and once knew seemed to live inside book titles and spines and most things for months were constant reminders of where he was and where he must go. He was getting in touch with parts of his life and himself that he believed were behind him, but now as he struggled with yet another transition...he was much more aware of everything and everyone who had touched his life. He had lived long days of regret and guilt but to accept and face these things was the task. To move on and function again, of course never forgetting Lavinia or William or any man he knew who fell beside him while he soldiered on – This is all he hoped to do.

To rejoin the land of the living, for somewhere between Lavinia's graveside and the present time he had gotten lost among those who wandered between life and death. He was a ghost of himself for many months, although was able to have life again unlike the true ghosts surrounding him. If not for his own well-being it was in William and Lavinia's memory that he took efforts to breathe a bit slower and deeper, aware of himself and his life again – they had no second chance and he might as well take his and not let them have died in vain.

It was for Mary, too, for she pumped life back into him just by looking at him with soft eyes and a heavy heart. To allow himself to think of her again was the greatest leap he took – he slept easier than he had in _years_ when he dreamt of her again and quiet breaths, sweet sighs, long, slim limbs, hair tumbling down her back...

Matthew felt as if the days had a purpose again, aside from his constant, self-inflicted torture. He felt...born anew, not shed of his past wrongs and lapses but moulded by them. He felt alive again and was hardly aware he had felt dead, too, a piece of him – The piece that had morals and principles, hope and a future. And truly, as recovered as he could be, as put back together as he could manage, he would never get over what happened to Lavinia. He could shed his skin as many times as possible but she hadn't deserved to feel hurt on her deathbed. Even if he hadn't played a part in her death, he did watch it, it still loomed over him. He was simply learning to live with the facts and hope it wouldn't haunt him so wretchedly – it would be apart of his life, always, but he could only try to not let it control his days. He would always be sensitive to her loss and the better life she could have had without him.

Mary and the Crawley women left for Ireland at the end of July but not before Matthew saw her once more.

He walked up a few days after their horseback excursion, with a hat full of raspberries and only friendly intentions in mind. Mary was reading a book on the bench beneath the tree and he smiled, fit to burst with relief at finding her so comfortably.

"Hello." Matthew said. She wore a coat over her skirt and blouse, a chill from the rainy days hanging on despite July's blanket of heat.

"What's that you have?" Mary asked, closing her book on her lap and watching him approach up the grassy slope, her expression welcoming but cautious – their last afternoon spent together had been nice but taxing.

"Something for you, actually." He brought a newsboy cap along with him and carried it in his hand, careful not to spill the contents.

"Oh?" She craned her neck and he smiled, glad to feel none of the tension returning, although there remained much unspoken between them, it was not so urgent and awkward as he expected. Perhaps this was how they could function – small doses and short breaks between interactions before everything was normal again.

"Raspberries," She smiled as he tipped the cap down for her to see. "Did you pick these?"

"I found them in the bushes you pointed out the other day – They're full with them this summer, I know you didn't expect them to be." Matthew sat beside her and she offered her palm. He shook some berries from the cap into her hand and she crinkled her nose at the wet berries staining her skin, a smile on her lips. Her gaze softened as she looked at him with thanks and tender eyes.

"They're my favourite."

"I thought they might be."

"You've been eating them already." Mary said, popping one in her mouth.

"How do you know?"

"Your mouth is pink." And Matthew grinned boyishly, tossing a handful back, the berries bursting on his tastebuds, juice seeping out on his lip.

They spoke easy words about nothing important for a few minutes and he looked at her in a dreamlike haze – The demure Lady Mary holding berries in her bare palm and eating them with her fingers. She had these spontaneous, endearing qualities, wasn't always the reserved Lady Mary, cold and careful. The juice seeped on her skin and stained it and she only laughed and dropped another on her tongue. Matthew gulped and continued eating his own and at one point Mary leaned over, swiped her thumb across his top lip, removing a piece of raspberry and the accompanying juices, and sucked the remnants from her thumb into her own mouth. It was a gesture that reddened his cheeks.

Matthew fumbled with the cap in his lap and scattered some berries over the ground, his coat suddenly unbearably hot as his pulse beat and blood raced through his body, warming and arousing certain parts of himself. He had never thought she could be like this, so carefree and improper, and he was glad it was for him that she let those barriers of propriety fall. His spirits soared, his vision cleared of all but for her and he grinned at her as they fell into a pleasant silence.

She was good for him and he had cast her down for so long but was here with her once again. How many chances would a man like him get? He deserved none but found a hundred.

"We leave for Ireland soon." Mary spoke, pages of her book ruffling in the wind, the ribbons of her hat trailing along, as well.

"You must be looking forward to it." He offered her more of the fruit as they talked.

"I am. As long as Sybil's happy. I don't love the length of the journey but to see the ocean is a wonderful reminder...And to put Richard off awhile longer." She smiled to herself, pleased at the thought.

"Mary..." He didn't want to push her, had no right to invade her relationship with Carlisle but if nothing else, if not for they to reunite, shouldn't _she_ at least be happy? She wasn't, it was clear. Nor was Matthew and perhaps they could put one another back together.

When would it be that she would stop bowling him over? Even now, in the grey, bland afternoon, she was stunning. She was the focal point without any sunshine, and so would be even with it! She was radiant enough to warm them both. She watched him carefully, her amber eyes never giving too much away while he felt his own leaked the truth until he was worthless.

"Do you think...maybe we could see more of each other?"

The more time he spent with her the more desperately undeserving he realized he was. She had been gracious and selfless and had been with him when he was on the very brink of death and had wanted for nothing in return when he had recovered. All that had passed between them in their many years apart was so stark on that day. It was a dark stain on their history and it was obvious now that he had hurt her deeply – he could spend all of his time mourning Lavinia and drenched in his guilt over that but shouldn't he reflect on the guilt from hurting Mary? He was a brazen bastard in the years of the war, through his engagement to Lavinia. He paraded her in front of Mary and how heartless was he? Mary declared herself the broken woman with no heart but it was really he – If he had ever truly loved her how could he not see that she had loved him?

"That depends...say, Granny was right...would you have me again?" Her voice was a high trill and it betrayed the casual tone she had aimed for.

How blind he had been, how tangled and tormented and now – Now it was a revelation, sweet and pure despite the fact neither of them really were. Oh, of course he would have her again, in any way. Even if he had married Lavinia, had she survived, he would have spent a lifetime in regard of Mary and longing for her. He would have her in one way or another – either to truly have her or to dwell on her so endlessly that he drove himself mad and there she would be his mind, he would have her that way.

Matthew never paused to think before he spoke, it was an impulse and an instinct to answer "yes".

"Of course," He choked out as everything came to him in a quick moment that stole his breath. He reached for her with a lurch, the hat of berries scattering between them."It was never a question of would I, it was _how_ would I...Oh, Mary."

He felt panicked with the need to touch her, to atone for all that had passed between them and all the hurt. He was overjoyed to be near her again, for it was much less painful to move on from all he had caused when she was by his side. Matthew was healing and Mary was along for the journey and he felt as if he were being rebuilt. He was so glad for her question, for her suggestion of maybe all was not lost between them, that he failed to notice her cool demeanour.

"Hmm," She huffed, turning away from his outstretched hand, her voice losing its bright tone. "Funny how easily you say that now."

"I – I – Mary – at the time, no, I couldn't have left Lavinia but it was not for lack of _want_. It was for duty and morals that I said I couldn't throw her over," He gulped, sweat beading on his brow, an unpleasant emotion hard in his throat. "This all sounds terribly cruel now that she's gone." His low voice cracked at the thought of Lavinia.

"It would have been terribly cruel to marry the girl out of _duty_ , Matthew."

He gaped at her for a moment but recovered quickly.

"She was willing to give up her life for my injury."

"So you say, and was she the only one?"

"And you say that so easily now, when I'm not sure why you care very much, since it's clear to see where you stand – With Carlisle."

"Oh there you are again, years later and everything's still black and white to you. You don't know where I stand with Richard. You don't understand."

"Pity that is, then. I'm glad to have made a fool of myself for your amusement. Mary, you ask a broken man to display his heart when you keep your own so buried beneath."

"That's what you think! I take twisted pleasure in knowing how you feel about me, because you don't know how I feel about you? Well, Matthew, perhaps you are a fool if you don't know where my heart lies by now."

"I do know you belong to Carlisle and that I shouldn't be here."

"You are wrong, _cousin_ Matthew. I do not belong to _any_ man, certainly not Richard, and if I did, it would be..." She had trailed off, catching herself before she was too vulnerable, maintaining frustration over vulnerability, but her lips pursed around the word "you" as it died on her tongue. She would belong to him, would she? He doubted it and her motives and stood up, a bit wobbly on his feet, his hand flexing where his cane normally was, unfamiliar with the loss of it. He thought he could do without it, if Mary was back on his side, but as they fought, the more his hand ached for his old companion, comfort, and crutch. It stung for her to call him cousin again, as they hadn't since he first arrived in Downton. He knew Mary for the heart and soul she did have but was always surprised at how clever she was at battling it out. She was as hurtful as anyone, with a few carefully chosen words.

He was embarrassed that he had so desperately professed he would want her again, his cheeks burning from the mortification he felt, duped into arguing with her. Matthew thought perhaps they were heading somewhere softer and loving but she was holding onto something he obviously didn't understand. She was offended that, all those months ago, he would not have left Lavinia. He was sure there was more heartache than offence taken but couldn't understand her lashing out. Were they not moving beyond? Were they not able to be honest by now? He feared he had just hurt her too terribly with all of his inconsiderate words and actions. Perhaps this time _he_ had ruined everything.

Matthew stood facing her and she was guarded and still.

"I'm glad we've enlightened one another, Mary. There must be a simpler way to say all of this but I can't find it. Have a nice holiday and give my best to Sybil and Tom." He crammed his hat on his head, dared Mary with a steely glance to laugh at the stray raspberry that rolled out of it and landed on his nose, and then he turned away from her.

"Goodbye cousin Matthew." The dull thud he heard was Mary tossing the book onto the grass after his retreating back and he didn't know whether to laugh or let his blood boil over.

* * *

Now, the second of September, he sat on the train back from lengthy visits in London and Manchester and he reflected on their argument bitterly. It was the last he had seen of her before they left for Ireland and she had mentioned something about France and London if there was time left in the summer. It had been three weeks since they left and Matthew's stress levels decreased some, no longer warring himself daily over begging Mary to be with him again, or if he was even ready for that, and instead healing slowly and fully. The argument had faded in a couple of days, lost in his other thoughts and preoccupations and he hoped it meant he was healthier, that he wasn't making himself sick over it. As it was, Mary was engaged to Carlisle and how much time spent with her was an inappropriate amount of time? He was nearly thankful for her long trip, at least it meant he worried about himself more and her less. For, when he knew she was home and dealing with Carlisle, he was always on edge. There was something that said to him Mary wasn't at ease in the relationship and she wasn't about to give it up, but perhaps she was staying with him out of reasons like Matthew's about Lavinia?

His conclusion was that she simply longed to feel wanted by someone and Carlisle wasn't filling that void for her, so she asked him if he would have her – And while Matthew easily said he would have her, want her, hoped to spend more time with her, could she believe him any more than she could believe Carlisle? Certainly, Matthew said it, but did he mean it, and what did it matter because Lavinia's death had hurt them all and left them burnt and fleeing from the flame that had lit when they danced. Mary wanted to be foremost on at least one man's mind and heart and had yet to find it. Matthew ached for her, sorry she was tangled with Carlisle, sorry that issues with her father still bothered her (to live your life regretting you had been born a woman, losing everything that was your family's...he couldn't imagine), and was painfully, distractedly regretful that he could not offer her what she needed. If _only he knew what to do –_ but he didn't. At least she was tucked away happily with her sisters and family for the rest of August.

During August, the weather was fine, so he walked more and explored Downton and even rode his bicycle again. He left his cane behind, permanently, the idea of leaving it was tied to leaving Lavinia behind and none of it came easy. He was glad to be alive, though, for the first time it felt in years and he didn't buckle under the weight of the war quite as often, straightened up and carried the burden, and not let it suffocate him.

Even his mother knew he was doing better, remarking one morning over breakfast that there was colour in his cheeks and that he looked like her young son again.

"I think you've finally scrubbed the war off of you," Isobel had said and he smiled at his dear mother, the strength and will she had was blessedly enough for them both during the months he was a walking corpse. She never gave up, no matter how many times she saw the shadows of haunts dwelling on his face.

He knew that, while on the surface, his nails and hands and face were clean again – the grey pallor of illness, injury and mourning had finally faded – that his heart was blackened and bore the holes that all the men he had killed and saw killed left there. He was not incomplete because of it, just a different kind of whole, a different kind of man. And Matthew tried to consider Lavinia's near constant presence with him as a healing, helpful sort. For, he knew that she would never wish him ill or hardship because of his traitorous heart and while, in the beginning, that had intensified the guilt, now he felt a sort of calm and acceptance. She was better, truer, and kinder than he and while he would never be free from her, it didn't have to be all tragic – Perhaps she would guide him, perhaps she would watch over him. He returned to church and to God after her death and he slowly allowed the truth of it all to sink in.

Being a martyr would not bring her back. Nor William, nor his own father, nor his countrymen lost in battle.

He was finally decisive in coming out of hiding from his own life.

Matthew had visited Reggie Swire in London and then an old university friend, Andrew, in Manchester. Seeing Reggie was often a sad affair, especially when he was bedridden and dwelt on Lavinia. He had no other immediate family, although a cousin would be at the house with him and Matthew was grateful, for the idea of her ill father alone and in mourning would be too much to bear. Of everyone robbed of her presence, it was Mister Swire for whom he felt the worse. Visiting with Andrew was a nice bookend to the trip, dulling some of the difficult feelings he had after London with Reggie. He drank with his old pal and passed out to sleep before eight o'clock in the guest room and it could not have been a tamer, more enjoyable time.

After visiting Reggie he was always awfully aware of mortality (and morality) and he knew the man survived the summer but doubted he could another harsh winter. The war was over but death still happened, it took Lavinia, it would take Reggie, some day it would take him (and Matthew was lucky it hadn't been sooner, during battle) and it put so much into perspective. How much time was he going to waste circling around Mary before he either went off her forever or took the chance while he had it? What if it was one of them next? The idea of her cold and dead, in the ground, was the hardest thing to even consider. Mary was _life_ to him, the truest representation he would ever find. He was determined, albeit nervous, but more resolved than ever to settle with her, one way or another. Death was looming over his shoulder and he was tired from it, and hopeful she would outshine the shadow of the reaper.

As the engine pulled into Downton, he awoke from his drowsing and blinked against the bright light of the early morning through the windows. His legs tingled and his back and bottom were numb and he shook his limbs, regaining feeling. Sitting for too long still inflamed the old injury and he winced, stretching pleasurably as the train slowed. Through the window, his head still thick with his thoughts, hangover and catnap, he thought he saw – He wasn't sure he was awake and blinked and squinted through the bright light and steam swirling outside, rubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. It was a familiar moment and he was catapulted back to the last time he so often rode the train – to and from war – and the last time he saw Mary standing on the platform like she was today. He shook his head, making certain he wasn't really leaving for war and leaving her and felt a tightness in his chest at the perturbing memories.

She wore the same colour, perhaps even the same outfit, a rich burgundy that complemented her beautifully, that she wore the last time they met at the train. The morning after the concert, after he first returned to Downton and introduced her to Lavinia – the morning she offered him a good luck talisman and kissed his cheek. He felt something stir within him at the memories and at the sight of her, something that he thought long was gone. Desire or affection, some happy, warm feeling that the sight of her brought to him. Oh, he was right to think of her, right to realize there wasn't time to waste, that he and she were still alive, flesh and blood, and who was he to take for granted he had all the time in the world? He stood, ready to disembark.

"Mary. Hello." He carried a single bag and dressed in a light suit, a jacket overtop, and a hat on his head. Summer's warmth lasted well into September that year and if he felt sleepy but calm and warm that morning.

"Oh! Matthew." Mary's cheeks were pink and eyes were tired and he felt his stomach soar, so taken with the idea of a sleepy Lady Mary, she who had to drag herself out of bed to make it to an early train on time. Or perhaps he was just taken with the idea of Mary in bed, fresh from it, standing in front of him. He wondered what she was doing there.

"You're back, then? From your extended vacation?" Matthew set his bag down and pulled his gloves off, stuffing them into his pocket, standing near her against the rising sun.

"Yes, just in last night. We stayed with Rosamund a few days more – We all had such a wonderful time together, we hated to see it end!" Most people looked haggard in the harsh light of morning but she was porcelain smooth skin, the smattering of freckles along her forehead and cheekbones exaggerated by the unyielding morning. Her brown eyes, flecks of gold and bronze, shone brightly with moisture, as if from recent yawns and Matthew smiled.

"I'm glad to hear." Sometimes he found when with her, he couldn't help the way his voice lowered to a husky purr, happy to have her near, trying to allure her to him. It was so natural, the way everything within him reacted to her – everything heightened, he felt his heart beat, felt life colour his cheeks, his body stir in ways, his eyes creasing attractively in their electric blue, his breath quicken and primal instincts thud. He felt like a true male when he was near her.

"Yes, hmm. Thank you. Where have you been?"

"Manchester and London."

"Were you to the doctor? Is everything quite fine?"

"Oh. Not the doctor, no. I don't go back for half a year, done with therapy. I'm a cured man, they might say." Matthew grimaced a little.

"And I've never seen a cured man look more displeased with the thought!" She chided him, his bulging eyes and tight jaw. "Be glad, Matthew. I take such heart in that news."

"Where are you going, then? If you've only just returned from London?"

"Back to, I'm afraid. Ships passing in the night, I suppose!" She smiled, her straight teeth grazing her bottom lip almost nervously, her eyes downcast.

"I don't understand. Is there anything wrong? You must have gotten in late."

"Richard wrote while I was gone and asked for me to come up the second, if we were still returning on the first."

"Why didn't you see him while you were back with Lady Rosamund?"

"Ah, well, he was away on business until yesterday himself."

"So you're going back up because he asked you to?"

"I suppose. Keep the peace and all."

"You must be tired."

"A bit travel weary. Truthfully I can hardly keep my eyes open even while we stand here!" She laughed but was quieter this morning, somber nearly. Carlisle was weighing on her mind already, the relaxation of weeks of vacation vanished. Matthew was glad to be the calm, rational one that morning, realizing that the more she seemed to need someone _or something, anything_ , the more reasonable he felt. She was his new hope to fulfil, he thought. Setting his mind on her could take his mind off of everything else.

"Don't go." He said simply, thick brows furrowed.

"Aha, if only it were so simple." Mary thought their conversation was pleasant and innocent but Matthew was determined. She even stood differently, her shoulders rolled forward and both of her hands clutching her bag across her middle. He hated to think of a downtrodden Lady Mary, Carlisle's doing.

"Well, it is. Don't get on the train, don't go."

"It's tempting but..." She took a few steps toward the train and looked back toward him. "I mustn't keep you, Matthew. I'll see you once I'm back, perhaps for dinner!" She waved a gloved hand and stepped into the first class compartment and Matthew frowned after her.

His thick head from the drink the night before slowed his reaction time but, as he watched her take her seat, glance once out the window and then stare straight ahead, he decided what he must do. It was strange to be the observer this time, to watch her prepare to leave instead of being the one to leave. Matthew left so very many times to and from the war and it took a toll on him like it took a toll on her. He turned around, bag in one hand, and entered the station to purchase another ticket.

Matthew boarded the train, removed his hat, found Mary's secluded seat and took the one across from her. She looked up from the Vogue she had pulled out, and raised her eyebrows.

"Did you forget something?"

"No, I thought I'd come along for the ride." He put his bag and hat in the seat next to him and smiled at her with drawn lips.

"Don't be ridiculous." She sighed, looking back down at the pages of the fashion magazine.

"I'm not, I don't think," Matthew interrupted, determined but politely so. "I think we could talk. The last we met...wasn't ideal, was it?"

Patiently, although struggling to seem so, Mary closed the Vogue on her lap and rested her hands there, too.

"I'm sorry for the way we left things last month," She said, honestly, straight forward. "But I see no need for you to ride the train with me to discuss them."

"I want to. I'm excited to now. I've never travelled anywhere with you." He had only taken the train with his Mother before and had driven to Downton once with Lavinia in her motor. He smiled at the memory, the long drive in which they had fumbled to get to know each other more, since he had impulsively proposed. It was an exciting time, he remembered, awkward and new and he wanted to tell her everything about the Abbey and the family...and Mary...

"Well. Genuinely, Matthew, I haven't been considerate and I wasn't during that argument." Her eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of her hat and she pressed her lips together, uncomfortable but seeing need to get things in the open, too.

Matthew perched forward in the seat, bending across the space toward her, leaning his elbows on his knees, looking up at her.

"I was awful to you...earlier in the Spring...it's only fair you expressed some frustrations." He said, quietly, although first class was empty but for them, although it was more for sincerity than for privacy.

"It wasn't about that, though – not entirely. Certainly, some residual hurt from how guilty I've felt but mostly...mostly I was asking things of you that you shouldn't have to expose...after what you were through. I shouldn't try to fill my own insecurities by feeding off yours."

"I understand, I do, Mary."

"Do you?" She leaned back in her seat, her hands going to remove her hat from where it was pinned to her hair and she looked expectant.

"I think so. Perhaps things are a bit shallow with Carlisle and you'd just like to feel..." Matthew trailed off, and sat back, too, feeling desperate leaning toward her, needy for closure, for explanation and peace.

There was a long moment in which she took what he said, looked ashamed and ruffled, but resigned to the truth, the fact that he was right.

"Simply better," She said, her head turned to gaze out the window, gaze detached from the conversation and focusing on a family of three preparing to board a compartment away. "Not even happy or whole, only... _wanted_..."

On the platform, the boy ran around his parents as they readied their tickets, and he laughed joyfully as his father caught him around the waist and swung him in a circle before carrying him onto the train. Mary watched the encounter, the woman smiling at her two men as they boarded and Matthew wondered if Mary wanted children. He wondered if it was ever something she longed for, or something she felt obligated to, growing up expecting to inherit Downton alongside Patrick. Now that she was free from those constraints, but bound to new ones in the form of Carlisle...were children in her future? Did she want to bring more lives into the life with Carlisle that she already resented? Her gaze was far off and sad.

He himself had never considered children, simply expected them as the natural order of life but when he was injured and, briefly, the chance for reproducing was stolen from him, he began to wonder about his own offspring and he'd imagine them with his blonde hair and their mother's brown eyes...Mary's brown eyes.

It was when Matthew really mourned the loss of what could have been, and when he recovered fully, he realized a family was something he wanted, he was joyful when he realized it was possible again after his injury but startled to know he wanted a family with _her._

"Oh Mary," Matthew said, drawing her back from her observations of the family, his voice holding the heaviness that she felt. "I do understand, I promise."

Small creases etched across her forehead as she looked back at him and with her somber expression, her cheekbones stood out, highlighting her face beautifully. They were so often on the same level, shared such an unspoken connection for which Matthew was thankful (too much of what they felt was hard to say).

"It's my burden to bear, Matthew, I was wrong to lay that on you. And what an ego I have! Offended you didn't say sooner that you'd have me...it must have taken guts to say you would at all, after you've tortured yourself so since she died."

"I should have said it sooner, Mary. I was ashamed, and confused...guilty and miserable,-"

"Weren't we all,-"

"I wish I hadn't stayed away from you." He finished after her coy interruption and a man came to collect their tickets as they collected their thoughts. First class remained their own reprieve as no one else came on and so Matthew stood and took the seat next to her instead.

"You shouldn't be so candid, we're not in quite a proper place, you know. You may wish that but I'm sure Richard is quite content with the situation." Mary said, her matter-of-fact, Lady Mary voice back in tact and Matthew rolled his eyes, pulling his book from his bag as she spoke.

He smiled and turned to look to her at his left, his hair brushing the cool glass, a nice contrast to the warm day. Her hand brushed his on the armrest and then pulled back, removing her gloves and setting them, her hat, magazine, and handbag in the seat Matthew had deserted across from them.

"Bugger what Carlisle thinks."

"Matthew!" She chastised but smiled and finally the train begin to roll ahead, the smooth, chugging of the engine picking up quickly and sweeping them out of Downton...for the first time together.

Matthew could almost physically feel the weight of the place and their problems leaving him as they sped away from the familiar landscape. On that territory...everything was fair game. All of the guilt and hurt and death lingered there and was inescapable, was pumped through Matthew's blood, his very veins. How could he think of anything but when he had to walk by Lavinia's grave site on the road to the big house? How could she ever, or William, or any of the men fallen who worked on the estate, be very far from his mind? He would always look at Mary and strive for more, to be present and whole and repair what he had rendered irreparable many months before but in the background of Mary was Downton and in Downton there were ghosts. Matthew felt lighter and better as they rounded a bend and the village slid from view and for the first time he could think of Mary and Mary only. He knew she did not feel so light, for as they left his haunts, they approached hers.

Carlisle and London.

"I think I'll be at the point of riding trains where once I'm off I'll still feel the ground moving." Matthew remarked to Mary in a murmur, slumped back against his seat, weary, hungover, but so satisfied.

"I didn't ask you to come," She said, gazing around the large compartment that was their private own, finding nothing to take her attention and finally meeting his blue eyes with her deep chestnut coloured ones. The light streaming in the windows glinted off her eyes, made her hair shine, and it was with a pleasurable affection that he realized they were nearly the same colour. Her hair shone deep chestnut, auburn highlights shimmering and her eyes were brown but gold but chestnut but red. "But I think I'm near that point, too. It's been an awfully lot of travel."

She was a vision.

Mary's head relaxed against the rest and when her blinking became slow and languid Matthew gestured with the book.

"Would you like me to read aloud?"

She was sinking and slumping, comfortable and tired and his heart pounded as it had earlier that morning when she appeared tired, some erotic undercurrent to her narrowed eyes, the rise and fall of her breast with her slow, heavy breathing.

"Mmm. That would be nice."

Matthew read for a few long minutes, his voice a low, intimate murmur near her ear and when her eyes slid shut he continued reading to himself, until her head lolled and found his shoulder. He sighed, not that he hadn't hoped for it but he knew it was improper. Improper to be riding trains with another man's fiancée, following her to visit said man, sitting so close to her, the warmth of her body warming his own. Improper to want her to leave the man, improper to find her so beautiful so suddenly, to be barely able to control his desire for her when he had only laid his own fiancée to rest mere months ago...

It was improper to love Carlisle's Mary, oh for Matthew loved her, he did, he loved Mary and knew he had never stopped, only hoped to stop during his long years at war but here he was again, with her, damned and doomed and in love.

But, Matthew reasoned, he hadn't cared much for propriety since war, since he had watched men bleed out at his feet, dead by his own hand. No, propriety was some figment, some thing that better people had held onto, those who had seen and done less and believed it was still possible there was righteousness left. He was the worst heir they could have found, the worst future Earl of Grantham there ever could be...a man who had done so wrong, who had self-pity and self-hatred. He cared for the family, he cared for the employees but he never imagined himself at the helm and not Robert. Downton would never suit him, he didn't think, because he let things get to him at his very core until he was a man robbed of his integrity. Upon reflection, he supposed, he cared most about inheriting Downton for Mary – He wanted her to have everything in the world and he would love, more than anything, to give it to her.

Matthew only wanted to see Mary in her rightful role as Countess, the title she was born into and groomed for and deserved more than anyone ever would. Matthew hoped, some day, Downton would be her's again...and he supposed that meant marrying her.

He was gazing out the window, far away in his thoughts, only faintly aware of the gentle weight of Mary's head on his shoulder. Her hair was fragrant, mixed in with her vanilla, musky perfume and it was a scent he would come to associate with comfort, with ease and rest and home.

"Where are your thoughts?" Mary's small, drowsy voice reeled him in and her sweet breath brushed his neck, the back of his hair. When he turned toward her their faces were too close and Matthew lurched back, thudding his head against the window.

"Oh!" Mary exclaimed, snapping awake and pulling back to watch him curse and press his hand against the lump.

"Jesus, jesus," He muttered, wincing at the pounding in his already hangover-heavy head. "Sorry, I – not proper and all."

"You're on pins and needles, Matthew." Mary sighed, sliding a hand through his blonde hair, pomade free that morning due to his travel, and she felt for the bump and told him it wasn't so bad.

"I just forgot where...where we were for a moment." He said, trying to straighten himself out.

"Everything's perfectly fine, we're perfectly innocuous on a train for heaven's sake. Perhaps you could finish the chapter before we get to London?"

Once they arrived at the station in London, things were relaxed again. Matthew finished the chapter and then three more before they arrived and once they did Mary was awake and invested in the story. Matthew felt like they were off to start a life of their own, it was so strange and such a treat to spend time with her alone, comfortable, away from the tangled webs they wove at Downton.

How he wished he could spend all of his time riding trains with Lady Mary Crawley, for he so believed it was he for whom she was her true self, her best self...her loving, vulnerable, hurt and open and hopeful self. He wished for her to be herself for the world but was at least glad he was fortunate to know her.

As the train pulled smoothly into the busier station in London, they stood and collected their things and Mary perched her hat over her hairdo and Matthew bent over to pick up his bag, still packed from Manchester and London the day before. He instinctively grimaced as he moved his stiffened back and before he could massage the ache away he felt Mary's hand there. Matthew straightened as she rubbed her small, gloved hand in a firm circle and looked very seriously, very meaningfully at him.

"I wish I could help you feel completely better." Mary said, a line between her brows as she frowned with thought.

"You do help me." Matthew said simply, and he meant it, when had he ever felt better than with her near? She was his healer.

She smiled a small smile, and when she pulled her hand away from his back Matthew grasped it in both of his own.

"I wish I could help you feel completely better, too, Mary. And when or if there is anything I can do for that...please tell me, won't you?"

Mary said nothing, just squeezed his hand and nodded once, brown eyes shining.

Once off the train, Mary looked unsettled, up the street toward Carlisle's offices, then back to Matthew.

"You can't come with me, of course."

"Of course. What shall I do? Leave? Wait? Wander? Eat? I think I will eat, I have a splitting head. How long might you be?"

"What's the sense of leaving after you've imposed yourself so! I'm not sure, five minutes or two hours depending on his mood," Mary sighed, rolling her eyes. "Where will I find you?"

"I think I'll go across the street, it's a café I've been to before. It looks like rain later, so mind that when you do come. Godspeed, Mary."

"Oh Matthew, I'm not off to war..." She smiled in thanks, though, as she turned away and walked up the street, Carlisle's building visible from where they stood, nice and cozy in the hustle and bustle of the city. Matthew watched her leave, the clacking of her heels echoing on after her.

Matthew was frozen for a moment, standing there on the sidewalk outside of a busy shop, watching Mary walk away...in a big city, so different from their meetings in her home at Downton. How very many times had she watched _him_ leave? It was hard for him, letting her go, even for a minute or two. If Matthew had been sensitive before he lost Lavinia, before he betrayed her and realized their relationship was not built on the same love that his with Mary would have been...he certainly would be sensitive now. He only wanted Mary close, only wanted all past wrongs forgotten and he wished she was ready to move on, too...

* * *

Matthew went to the small but accommodating café across the street, with white dining tables and high beams. He didn't know what to do while she was gone, or even what he could think about...what he hoped would come of her visit...but he was glad she would return. Matthew was desperate to be near Mary and he was so relieved all tension from their last meeting was gone. She was gracious, she understood, she was restrained and kind and he deserved none of it – but Matthew had realized how ever much he might not deserve her...he wanted her...he needed her...he could never give her all she should have, could never make up for all he had done...could never feel moral and whole again but...he would be selfish in his need for Mary, he thought...he was determined and crazed and so scared to lose her forever.

And at least he wasn't Carlisle.

Matthew read the paper, nursed his heavy head with a coffee and sandwich, coming back into himself, vision cleared from lingering alcohol. He felt as if he were on verge of a breakthrough, of resolution, of happiness, and he was happy to spend an hour alone, happy to feel like a normal man, reading the court news as the lawyer inside him would, enjoying his lunch and just generally feeling like a man brought back from the brink.

He was a man who had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

An hour later the eatery became cramped as the skies opened up and rain fell down on London, so Matthew paid and left, tucking the newspaper beneath his arm. Once outside, passerby's rushed into shops and cars, stood beneath awnings away from the rain that was missing for the month of August. He looked up and down the street, wondering whether to fetch Mary or to head to the train station, early for the next train they could take back. Before he could make a move, though, he saw her approaching, her burgundy outfit soaked with rain and her hair sticking to her forehead.

He dashed through puddles and unfolded the newspaper, coming to stop and held it high above their heads, shielding them from the rain. She looked at him with a flat expression and her sigh was drowned out. The paper split from the wet and the cold rain-soaked their faces and he tugged her along the street until they were at the train station.

"How was it?" Matthew asked, finally, as they entered the warmth, leaving a puddle of their own on the floor. They sat on a bench in the centre of the station, Matthew laying his suit jacket over the back and then helping Mary out of her own. She peeled her arms out of the sleeves and her pale coloured blouse was wet, the outline of her chemise visible beneath. Matthew swallowed.

"Tedious."

"Was he mean?" Matthew said, with innocence like before he was Captain Crawley, and Mary's song of a laugh echoed in the high ceilings.

"He wasn't interested in hearing about Sybil's wedding because it brought up that the only reason he didn't force us to marry this summer was for the fact that you and I weren't seeing each other," Her eyes glinted strangely. "It was a threat, Matthew, daring me to say we are speaking again so he could...he could make sure I'd put an end to it. He's malevolent, almost."

Matthew shook and his jaw clenched, feeling the anger wind up inside of him, furious for release but unable to find it when dear Sir Richard was tucked safely away. He had upset Mary after demanding she travel to see him and Matthew was aching for her (physically _aching_ for her but also aching with hurt for her).

"If I left things would be easier on you,-"

"Don't talk like that,-"

"But my leaving isn't anything to worry about anymore. When it first happened I thought about Manchester but I'm invested, aren't I? I couldn't turn away after all of this."

Mary sighed and sat down beside Matthew and when she looked at him, she was that of a drenched damsel and she was preparing to answer the unspoken question between them. Obviously her visit to Richard wasn't a happy one and Matthew was practically gritting his teeth against begging to know why she bothered with it all, why she was unfathomably still with him.

Matthew sat patiently as she fixed her wet hair, brushing stubborn tendrils off of her forehead.

"It's not that I'm forced with him, it's – it's I needed a favour, quite awhile ago now, and Richard's a man with connections and power,-"

"More than your father, _Earl_ of Grantham?"

"You'd be surprised. When I went calling to Richard, and asked for his help he...he used his proposal as leverage,-"

"A business proposition."

"Essentially. In any case, I agreed. He helped me and I agreed to marry him. It's...if I turn him out now...the favour..." She trailed off hopelessly, expecting Matthew to understand.

"The favour retracted? And it's so awful that you'd rather marry him with the favour in tact, than to be without?"

"As it stands now, I'm afraid so..." Mary's voice was small and low, the disappointment and upset heavy in her words, when normally she was so good at erasing everything from her demure voice. No, it was tormenting her, Matthew could tell.

"Might it change?"

"It might. It's less about my pride now and more...more about my courage. I'm as fearful of his repercussions as those of the favour falling through." Mary sighed and Matthew turned toward her, bending a leg on the bench to sit nearer to her, taking her wet, red fingers in his own large hands. He felt full and encouraged at her admission, when perhaps he shouldn't – but at least he knew she was with that man for _something_ that definitely wasn't love. She didn't love Carlisle and if she would only open up to Matthew, he could barely dare to imagine all they might have together...

His heart was heavy for whatever deep dark secret she had to conceal with Carlisle's help but Matthew didn't believe it would hold, he didn't believe she would want protection with the favour forever. He did believe that she would gather up her strength and deal with it, over dealing with Carlisle. Matthew also believed there was nothing, _nothing_ that she could tell him or confess that would put him off her. There was nothing that could change who she was or what she meant to him. For look at all he had done! The men he had killed, the sacrifice of William's that was wasted on his ungratefulness while injured, his betrayal of Lavinia...he couldn't imagine what it was, what had happened to Mary but he did know he would accept it whenever it came out.

For it must be revealed, it had to be, now that he was determined, now that he was hopeful for a future, he was willing to fling off his own demons and self-loathing if he could have _her_...but, he supposed, he wouldn't push it for the moment, he wouldn't force or beg her, because he wasn't ready, either. He was willing but shaky, hopeful but also wasn't enough for her, yet. He carried too much with him, through his day today, to help her yet...he wished her safety and happiness from Carlisle but Matthew was no more stable for it...Mary was stronger than he and she would overcome and hopefully, oh hopefully, he would be the man he should be for her, the day it happened.

But he felt such pride to be with her that afternoon. He was being seen with Lady Mary Crawley at the train station in London and how he wanted to kiss her on the streets of London, wished to save her from it all, there in London.

His thoughts from the morning came calling back and they were disturbing and morbid but foremost on his mind...it justified everything he felt.

"The thing is, Mary, Reggie Swire won't live through another winter."

"What? Why do you talk like that?" She asked, lines pulling her mouth into a sad frown, looking down at their clasped hands.

"Well...he's bed-ridden and heartbroken over Lavinia...the summer was kind to him but he won't survive another cold, damp, English winter."

"I'm terribly sorry to hear..."

"Yes, thank you, but it's that – It has me thinking and...some day it will be me, or you or...Carlisle, even, who won't live through another season and before we're washed and buried I just... _want_..."

Mary's eyes were wide and searching, back and forth, to and fro, boring into Matthew's. They were warm and nervous, unblinking as she hung onto his last word, waiting for the next. She sat up straight and her chest heaving was the only betrayal of her calm appearance, her breathing heavy and quick.

"I just want you. Finally. I don't deserve to, and I've done everything wrong that a man can do but – My life only feels real when you're apart of it."

"Oh it's good to believe that something feels real, I know," She said breathlessly. "But it's impossible..."

"I expected as much but I don't mind saying anymore. Mary, especially because of what you told me, I'm not about to give up."

"It would do you good to." Mary said thickly, something between a sigh and a sob, taking her hand back from his and sighing.

"But you know how I feel?" She asked, dabbing at the corners of her eyes as she took a shuddering breath. Even when she felt vulnerable she was never down for long. She picked herself back up fast and Matthew thought it strange how her presence shifted - At Downton she was larger than life, the focus of the room, the centre of the world, but here, after her visit to Carlisle, she was smaller somehow, small shoulders curled forward in a protective position. She could rule the world, shone so brightly she could replace the sun itself, but being with Carlisle was diminishing her and it pained Matthew to see.

Matthew's heart swelled at her words, _how she felt_ , and his chest puffed out as he felt a reassured warmth spread over him.

"God, I hope so," He said, very aware of his breathing, very tempted to whisk her away wherever he could. But for now it was enough, for now it was everything. "And you, I?"

"Yes...it's too much to say it aloud, I think, not when it's,-"

"Impossible,-"

"Yes. But – I know. It's the only thing I'll know from now, Matthew." When she said his name and looked at him, Matthew realized he was existing for an entirely different purpose now. He would exist for her, he would strengthen for her, he would do all he could to heal for her – what a motivation, what a curse and a blessing their relationship had been and it was rounding the bend toward its last hurdle (so he hoped). Her eyes were fiery and restless and spoke the world that she contained.

They left the station for their train, feeling oddly coupled and red-faced among the public. Matthew took her purse and his bag, both of their sodden jackets draped over his arm, and they waited on the platform for the engine to unload. The sky was clearing, the grey haze fast-moving along the clouds and revealing hints of blue.

"Typical London," Mary said conversationally, gazing up. "Rained upon and then the sky turns blue."

"I'd like to kiss you in typical London." He said boldly, lamely, abashed. Mary looked over at him with wide, scandalized eyes.

"You mustn't! We are in Richard's London, you know." She folded her arms across her middle, looking uncomfortable without her coat to clench her fists in the pockets of.

"Oh Richard's London, what an important man Carlisle is!"

"Spite isn't an attractive quality on you, Matthew."

He smiled at her, mischief like he hadn't felt since he was a teenager thrumming and egging him on. He stepped nearer to her and her eyelids fluttered briefly.

"Mustn't I, though? Or would it...be alright?" He spoke quietly to her which brought her closer to him, eager to hear his murmurs.

"Isn't this exactly what damned us and hurt Lavinia so?" Mary's hand laid on his chest as their coats and bags slipped from his grip and they tilted their heads naturally.

"We and our hurt must matter in this sometime, Mary." And he was grasping her wrist gently, fingers stroking the delicate bone there, moving her into him.

"I can't be sure if you mean it or are just desperate for a kiss." She breathed and Matthew drew her in, his hand sliding up to her shoulder and clutching her close. Her blouse was still damp but her skin became feverish as he touched her.

She was tall and willowy and he never had to bend far to find her lips, full and soft, puckered, then parting to tug his own top lip between them. It was fumbling and hasty, his one hand on her shoulder and her's stroking the hair above his ear, not as wrapped up together as they desired to be but still finding pleasure in this forbidden token. Her petal-coloured mouth was sweet with honey and mint and he couldn't deny himself her any longer.

Mary angled toward him sweetly, her long neck curving, his nose brushing her cool cheek and his lips moulding with her own. Her mouth parted and she sighed softly, his tongue tracing hers daringly, his entire body tingling and burning, before pulling back and brushing their lips together for a few slow moments. He was almost caught up in the kiss, too caught up while standing out in the open, and Mary put an end to it, smiling, pushing him away with her hand on his chest. She straightened his tie and his lips pulsed and he smoothed them together as they parted, tasting her there still.

"This is what scandals are made of, Matthew." Little did he know how much she knew about scandal and regrets.

"Richard's London," He murmured, her breath still warming his mouth, her lips glancing his before she stepped entirely away. "Right."

"What do we do now?" She asked tenderly, brows knit together in elegant concern, looking at him with careful wonder.

"I think...it's good to know where we stand,after so very long...and we go home." His voice low, bright blue eyes roaming around the faces of those surrounding them, and then back to her. She was alabaster but light, caramel-coloured freckles flecked her skin, three pretty moles along her arm that he adored and ran his finger along.

It was like she was coming into focus, as if she had been obscured to him for so long, a little blurred, a little hidden, but with the revelation that he loved her so, everything about her was clear. Her eyebrows were shapely and expressive, her cheekbones angular and defining, the little lines pulling around her eyes were endearing and told stories of all the years she had seen, all of the years he had known her...oh Mary...

Matthew sighed and stooped down for their belongings and apologized to Mary for the state of her poor, wrinkled, wet and dirty coat and she told him to look at his own. They chuckled and finally boarded the train, Matthew's mocking of Carlisle's London changing to true feelings of exposure and paranoia as they had kissed so openly with eyes upon them.

"Shall we go to the tea cart? You could use warmed up. Here long enough to be rained on, I suppose!" Matthew arranged their tickets and seats and something indecipherable leaped from his stomach to his throat, something that told he would love to do this for her as more than...more than jilted, mournful, _cousin_ Matthew...

"It's always a comfort to hear you call Downton home." Mary said, her hair frizzing as it dried, curling around her head, falling across her forehead although she brushed it away.

"I've never known one like it, truly." He touched Mary's cheek, licking his lips again at the memory of her's and the way his stomach soared. The windows were blurry from the rain and the speed as they started to move and she sat beside the window this time, the whole scene having a very surreal feeling. Matthew could hardly believe that she was real, or they were here, and he had kissed her for only the third time ever. He gulped, the sunshine creeping back in and she was a hazy figure against it, a lovely presence so tangible and warm.

It was hard, for Lavinia was never far from his thoughts and he knew it and Mary knew it, could see Lavinia there just behind his eyes. He himself was beginning to think he a broken record but there is only so much suffrage you can bury away, always remnants left on the surface. Matthew hoped someday he would feel more settled about it but believed if anyone could understand, it was Mary. This he thought on the very day of Lavinia's wake, although he forced it upon her none too gently, but Mary was the one to empathize if anyone would.

"I know you're looking at me but sometimes...seeing her." Mary said cleverly, and he blinked, snapping his mouth shut as it had gaped open reflexively.

"I don't imagine her with _me_ , just – just her happy...finding a better man."

"Hmm," Mary arched an eyebrow good-humouredly. "You weren't a good enough man for her but think you are for me?"

"Well, I'm better than _Carlisle_." Matthew retorted and Mary tried to suppress a smile by jutting out her chin indignantly and lifting her brows but ended up smiling anyway.

They sat quietly, settling in for the ride, nerves calming, pulses slowing. Matthew was digging for the book again when she spoke.

"It won't be me next, Matthew. Or you, for that matter...to die...although I do appreciate that your eyes have been opened by all that's happened."

"You don't know it won't be, though. Probably not but maybe so." He was distracted, still fumbling through his things, and he heard Mary sigh, figured she had rolled her eyes.

"I just mean – no, of course I don't know, nor do you – you can't live with this darkness over your shoulder. You won't have a normal go of it if you do."

He looked at her and everything she spoke sounded like a verse, a hymn, a benediction.

"You're right. And I'm trying."

"That's all I ask." She swooped toward him and looked at him with dark, lidded eyes, and then looked at his mouth, but instead kissed his cheek softly. Her lips were the smoothest against his rough, stubbly cheek and he sighed heavily, nearly a moan.

Without another word about their hearts or feelings or longing, Matthew resumed reading aloud from the novel and they adjusted themselves comfortably for the rest of trip. It was perfectly plain, perfectly ordinary but also something that would bond them in the coming months. These small, quiet moments they stole away were the foundation of their coming together, their building back up. He would not kiss her again, or sit alone with her after horseback riding, or ride a train with her, until she was free from Carlisle...and he was free from Lavinia's sweet, sweet ghost...

But, as they sped through the countryside like characters in the novel they shared, he believed, finally, that they would be free someday and she would be his to love openly. All he knew was within her now.

Matthew Crawley was a changed, damaged, but moral man and he would begin again when the new year came. How lucky he was, how lucky one can be while as heavily cursed as he.


End file.
